Chapter 23
The dam has broken, and though I have little control over my tears—I’m vaguely aware of a few people coming and going behind me—I strive to keep my sobbing quiet. I’m living in a corny, sad song. Getting control of myself, I force myself to slowly stop crying, but I’m still hunched over, a ball of stupid despair, when someone taps on my shoulder.
Fearing it’s Bryce, and afraid of what I might say to him in the moment, I don’t look up.
“Peyton?” a familiar voice asks.
I look up to see Gabe frowning down at me. A girl connected to his hip frowns at me too.
“What’s going on?” he asks, his frown deepening.
I’m very embarrassed—my eyes have to be red and my skin splotchy—and my lip quivers, but I shrug.
His frown deepens even more. “Where’s your boyfriend?”
I look away.
“You two fighting?” he asks, and my lip quivers again as I barely nod. After letting go of the girl’s waist, he bends down in front of me until his elbows are on his knees, his brown shoulder-length hair falling forward. “You going to sit out here all night?”
I shrug again.
His expression turns skeptical. “Want to come to the after-party and watch us sign more shit?”
A party would be horrible in my current state. I shake my head.
Sighing, he reaches behind his back and draws out his wallet, then flicks his hotel card in my face. “Then here. We actually got a semisuite this time. The couch is all yours.”
The couch sounds like paradise. My fingers reach for the card but pause. “Will Romeo care?” I ask since they always room together. “And how will you get back in?”
“Why would Romeo care? And I’ll just get a new key.”
I grab the card. “Okay.”
He slowly stands. “Do you want us to walk you up?”
The girl smooths a hand over her short dress, looking irritated.
“No, that’s all right,” I say, shaking my head again.
He doesn’t look convinced yet says, “Room 1229.”
I stand and force a slight smile. “Thank you, Gabe.”
“No problem,” he says, the crease between his brows intensifying as he again takes in my puffy face. “Maybe you need to think about what you really want, Peyton,” he says, pulling the girl toward the door. Over his shoulder, he adds, “Because I’m seeing something totally different than what you got.”
My nose wrinkles at his insinuation. Bryce and I had a fight. It had nothing to do with Sam. Before I can comment, he whisks the girl out the door. Thankful and irritated with him, I start my trek to the room. Bryce and I are on the tenth floor, so at least there will be a couple of floors between us.
The suite has a small living room with a table, couch, and chair. After rinsing my face and using the toothpaste on the counter and my index finger to brush my teeth, I find an extra blanket and pillow in the closet across from the bathroom. From the shadow of the bathroom light, I can see that one of the beds is messed up, which causes me to realize why Gabe came back to the hotel. Obviously, he had a booty call in between the concert and the promotion party.
Back in the living room, after shutting off my nonstop vibrating phone without looking at it, I remove the little couch pillows and spread out the blanket. The couch is shorter than most. I just fit. Once I lie down, confusing thoughts of the past two days tumble through my head. Sam cuddling with me overnight on the bus. Bryce showing up. Bryce getting drunk. Bryce being a jerk all day. Sam’s passionate kiss. Bryce’s lifeless kiss.
Needing the thoughts to stop, I reach for the TV remote and watch infomercials for over an hour. I finally fall asleep, pleasantly dreaming of vacuum cleaners and omelet pans.
“Peyton,” someone whispers. I try to ignore it and stay in my mindless dreams. A hand gently shakes my shoulder and the “Peyton” whisper sounds again. I slowly open my eyes. The TV is still on, casting the room in shadows. Someone is bent over me.
I gasp slightly, but the shadow of curls on top of his head gives my tired brain the only clue I need. I quickly scramble up into a sitting position. “What are you doing here?”
Sam lowers himself onto the small coffee table and we’re face-to-face. The light from the TV illuminates one side of him. Shadows form under the curve of his cheekbone, beneath his full bottom lip, and below one muscled pectoral. With all the curves and ridges, he’s like a living sculpture. Why is his shirt off?
He leans just the slightest closer. “This is my room.”
“Really?” I say in a confused tone, pulling my gaze from his chest. “Gabe rooms with Romeo.”
His smirk flashes in the grayness. “Apparently, Romeo woke in the middle of the night to a woman screaming Gabe’s name. Since we’re the single ones, he booted Gabe to my room this morning.”
“Oh,” I say, staring at the lush curve of his lips. The urge to reach out and touch them to see if they’re as soft as they look overwhelms me. The urge must come from the fact I’m half asleep. Wake the hell up, Peyton!
He leans a little closer to me. “I should ask you the same thing. Why are you here?”
Because my boyfriend thinks I owe him sex pops into my mind. “I-I don’t want to talk about it.”
I can’t help notice his intent look of interest. “Well, though it’s past four in the morning, I thought you might want one of the beds. Gabe went home with his lady friend.”
The girl in the short dress flashes in my mind. “Um, no thanks. Gabe and his lady friend already used one bed.”
“Oh,” he says, his full lips turning down. “Then take my bed. I’ll take the couch.”
I shake my head. “It’s too small for you. I barely fit.”
“I’ve slept on worse. I insist.”
“Go to bed, Sam. I’m fine.”
“Peyton, take the bed.”
“Go. To. Bed. Sam,” I say, my jaw suddenly tight.
“You still mad about last night?” He sighs and leans back. “Listen, I was drunker than I admitted, and there’s too much be-tween us already. Your boyfriend, my brother, the past . . . making things worse was stupid.”
I look away into the shadows of the room as my chin starts quivering. Damn. I’m becoming an emotional mess.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
My chin quivers more at the concern in his tone.
Sam kneels in front of me, pulling me into his arms. “Shit, Peyton. Don’t look like that. It’s killing me.” He brings me closer to him, rubbing his damp curls along my collarbone.
I put my hands on his shoulders to push him away, but somehow I can’t. The sensation of skin against mine—why the hell is his shirt off?—and the way his hands span my back renders me immobile. The sleepiness of my body disintegrates and I’m more than awake. I’m alive. With a sudden burning lust.
“Forgive me?” he asks, and his lips brush my neck, sending a wave of tingles across my skin and down to the bottom of my belly.
Without thinking, I slide my hands over his shoulders, using my palms to caress the curve of his muscles.
“Peyton?” he whispers, raising his head.
His whisper and the memory it invokes cause chills to run along my skin. I close my eyes, hoping that not responding will be enough to stop what feels inevitable, to stop what I suddenly desperately want. Beyond the desire, a warm rush of tenderness for him flows through me.
“Peyton?” he repeats, and the word whispers air across my lips. The soft breeze of it on my skin is like a prelude to a kiss, like an intro to a lush, pounding, sensual song.
He doesn’t move, though. Yet I can sense him. Feel him close. Too close. Unable to help myself, I lean forward and brush my lips against his, so softly and so quickly that aside from the jolt of want it creates inside me, it’s as though it may not have happened.
The arms around me tremble, and the air snaps with tangible energy as his chest rises with a huge inhale before his mouth crushes mine.
A sigh escapes me. This feels right. Perfect. Wonderful.
We kiss and kiss and kiss. At each touch of our lips and tongues, we grow more frantic. With each kiss, he moves up and closer until I’m lying over the arm of the couch, his muscled weight pressed into me, his belt buckle pressed into my stomach, his hands slowly running up and down my sides. His gentle touch paired with his desperate, fierce lips makes me feel cherished.
I slide my hands from his contoured back to his damp curls—he must have showered, I think wildly, which is why he’s not wearing a shirt—then down again. I can’t get enough of him, his touch, his lips, his smooth muscled skin, and his boyish, just-showered scent. With one leg and foot pinned in between him and the back of the couch, my other foot lowers to the floor. I use it as leverage to arch my body against his.
He releases a groan.
We stare at each other for one long sizzling moment before his lips find mine again as his hand touches my bare knee. The kiss is fast, fierce, and frenzied, a tangle of tongues and lips and teeth. The slide of his hand along my thigh is slow, tantalizing, and magnetic, an intoxicating caress that has me yearning for more. His fingers move higher, brushing my panties, and my entire body jumps at the contact.
He breaks the kiss, breathing hard and burying his face in my hair as his fingers slip beneath my underwear from the side. We both pant above the muffled sounds of the TV. His fingers rub and slide against me, and my hips move to the pulse he sets. I’m moaning and clenching his arms, my body bowed off the couch.
He pauses for a moment, breathing harshly against my skin. I become wild, tearing at his belt buckle, then ripping open the line of buttons on the crotch of his jeans. Spurred by my frenzy, Sam pushes up on one arm and helps me yank the jeans off. When I push my hands inside his boxers and grasp him, his entire body stills as a low growl reverberates from his throat.
“Holy shit, Peyton,” he gasps, then reaches for his jeans on the floor. A second later, he’s tearing a condom open with his teeth, pulling from my grasp, and rolling it on in seconds.
We tug off my underwear together. Poised above me, he lifts my skirt and grips my open thighs.
Nearly tearful with want, I clutch his biceps. “Please, Sam,” I pant.
He comes closer until he is pressed against me. “Tell me you want me. Say you want me inside of you,” he says from a tight jaw, muscles straining in his neck.
His tip rubs up and slides against me, causing me to gasp, “I want you, Sam. Now. Inside.”
“Sam and Peyton. Finally,” he says wistfully, gripping my thighs tighter and sliding in.
I’m insensible. My body is in control as my head falls back and I push up to meet him. He jerks my T-shirt and bra up above my chest, spreads his hands under my back to hold me up, then he kisses my shoulders, my throat, and my breasts as we move and gasp together. As the tempo builds, faster and faster, I lose control. My fingers go from gripping his arms, his chest, his back to scratching him as I climax. His mouth goes from kissing and sucking my skin to an open moan, held between my breasts.
Our heavy breathing fills the room. Lust spent, the situation, so very much like the past, hits me. I’m in his room, on his couch, with my skirt around my waist, my shirt and bra up to my neck, and my panties on the floor. When he raises himself up on his elbows, I’m expecting Bryce to charge into the room. Mortified, I quickly scramble out from beneath him.
“Peyton?” he says softly.
Tugging on my underwear, I ignore him. I can’t believe this. I can’t believe what I did. Again.
He rolls onto his back and repeats my name. I tug my boots on and grab my purse. He sits up.
“Don’t do this to me,” Sam says. “Don’t run again. Don’t say it was nothing.”
“Oh, it was something,” I say over my shoulder, heading to the door. “I lost my mind for a bit. Now it’s back.” I open the door. “I have to go.”
I shut the door as he angrily says my name louder, then I rush down the hall to the elevator.